I still remember those afternoons coming home from school, dropping my backpack by the door, and firing up my old Xbox 360 to play AVP: Extinction. To me, it wasn’t just another RTS—it felt like one of the most iconic, well-designed games of its kind.
My little brother and I had our own twist on it. The game wasn’t co-op, but that never stopped us. We’d set up skirmishes, crank the difficulty up to the max, and make a deal: first one to lose wins. It sounds backwards, but it kept things fun, chaotic, and surprisingly tense.
I always gravitated toward the Aliens. There was just something about building up swarms of xenomorphs and commanding them like my own personal legion. I’d lean back in my chair, grin at my brother, and declare in my best over-the-top villain voice: “Go forth, my spawn—bring me meatsies! Bwahahaha!” That line became an inside joke, something we’d repeat until we were doubled over laughing, even as our carefully built armies got shredded by the AI.
Now, me being in my late 30s and my little brother following close behind, looking back, those memories hit differently. It wasn’t just about the game—it was about the ritual of it. The screen glowing as evening crept in, the sound of us trash-talking and laughing across the room, and the little moments where losing didn’t matter because the fun was in playing together.
In my mind, AVP: Extinction isn’t just a strategy game—it’s a snapshot of childhood, a memory wrapped in laughter, brotherhood, and the simple joy of commanding pixelated chaos.